


goodbye, old friend.

by mediocritea



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Other, ouchie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediocritea/pseuds/mediocritea
Summary: the deputy doesn't make it to the plane.





	goodbye, old friend.

**Author's Note:**

> once again, enabled by jesse.  
> ( originally posted to my rp blog. )

     The Deputy doesn’t make it to the plane. In the end it’s Nick and John in the air, like they used to, soaring above the clouds. They’re going too high, too fast, too sharp – below, the Deputy follows them in a poorly armored pickup truck, small enough to compare to an ant milling around helplessly beneath them. **‘** _Ah,_  I was  _hoping –_ it would be you,  **’** John admits, all at once demented elation and bitter resignation, voice torn to pieces by the static between their frequencies. Nick is cursing, raging like a dying fire, curling upward in the air to avoid the onslaught of John’s bullets.  **‘**  You know, you’ve forced my hand.  **’**  The static hits a fever pitch, a slew of feedback that drowns beneath the burst of gunfire. When it clears, his words are harder.  _Angrier_.  **‘**  The Father gave you a chance at  _salvation,_  Nick.  **’**  Unspoken in the silence between bursts,  _you should have listened to him. you should have listened to_ **me** **.**  

     The sky is burnt and blurred, darkening,  _darkening_. Blackened smoke has begun to stream from Nick’s engine. The blades have begun to sputter.  _nick, why wouldn’t you listen to me? why would you widow your wife, abandon your child?_ _we could have walked arm in arm, hands at our hearts and heavenward. we could have – should have —_  then they are both on the ground. The Carmina is a mess of open wires and creeping flames, and it is a wonder the heart inside Nick’s flayed chest still beats. They are both bloodied, bruised, and littered with cuts, heaving breaths that will not come easily. Neither of them will survive this.

     John intends to see his old friend off first. 

     Nick’s torso is a smear of red, fresh wounds layered atop old, a patch of raw flesh peeking out past his open collar.  **(**  Had that really been less than an hour before? Knife in hand, knees pressed into the wooden floor of the church, a congregation of  _friends_ old and new – Nick’s pride is going to be the death of him, just as wrath will be John’s own. The difference lies therein: John is prepared for it. He  _welcomes_ it with arms wide open. Does Nick?  **)**  

     There’s anguish, now, mirrored in both of their eyes. Devastation reflects in the heavy lines on their brows and the burning wrecks of their planes. John is sure a lung got struck somewhere in the sky; there’s a rattling noise inside his chest. His throat is tight, too, his eyes  _sting_ – but it isn’t all physical pain.  **(**  No, you see:  _a child weaned on pain considers harm a comfort,_  but there is no comfort to be found here.  **)**   **‘**  You didn’t –  **’**  he wheezes.  **‘**  You never listened. I never wanted,  **’**  he spreads his arm, a wide gesture that touches upon the destruction they have both wrought. A flinch of pain cuts the movement short.  **‘**   _–_ _this_.  **’**  

     There’s a hunting knife tucked inside his waistband and a smaller one inside his boot. John steps forward, slow, as Nick recoils, taking a step backward. He’s scrambling for a gun, a stick, a piece of wreckage –  _anything_. There’s a limp in his gait that unsteadies him, a sharp pain in his ankle.  **‘ Stay _back_. ’** Nick spits, raking one hand through his hair and warding him off with the other. His cap is gone. It strikes an image so  _wrong_  it almost gives John pause. 

     Almost.

      **‘ I’ve got – ’**  he almost sounds desperate.  **‘ _You can’t do that to Kim_. ’**  **(**  Their history extends further than just the two of them. John can remember when Kim would spare him a smile, bright as sunshine and sweet as honey; the kind she reserved for very, very few. It  _meant_ something.  _They_ meant something. They all did. And  _then they abandoned him_  —  **)**  

      **‘**  I wanted to save you. Both of you.  **’**   _and afterward, the three of you._

 **‘**  Can’t you see I was –  **’**  John coughs wetly.  _i was only trying to help you._

     He knows without looking that there is blood in his beard, just as he knows he’s failing. He knows that the deputy is approaching soon, he knows that he won’t live to see the garden, knows that when he dies The Gates won’t open for him— there’s a spring in his step, and then John has a knife to Nick’s throat and a hand fisted in the hair at the back of his neck.

     Nick is suddenly still, tense like coiled electricity. 

      **‘ John – ’**  

     A thin line of red creeps down against the edge of the blade. 

      **‘**  You’ll see her again,  **’**  he promises emptily.  _You won’t see me._

     When the Deputy clears the trees, chest heaving, John’s hands are bloodied beyond compare. _He sits huddled next to_ — mud is soaked into the knees of his pants, brown and green, his breath is weak, his smile is serene. Nick is slumped against a tree, cast in the wilting shadow of John’s retribution. A liberation, too – Nick’s soul was never too dirtied.

     No, not like his.


End file.
